


Inglorious Summer

by Elsinore_and_Inverness



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Camping, Fluff, Hair Brushing, Ireland, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 17:24:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12137439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsinore_and_Inverness/pseuds/Elsinore_and_Inverness
Summary: Mostly Aumerle untangling Richard's hair





	Inglorious Summer

I was looking after the horses, or rather, I was watching soldiers and a few servants look after the horses. The king had complained that our mounts were skittish, but they weren't particularly. They stood in docile attendance, on a line of rope encircling the clearing. Horses didn't like forests as a general rule. They were made for open land, being able to see in all directions. Trees were threatening. Predatory.

'My lord.' Someone cleared their throat behind me. I turned my head. One of my cousin's heralds.

Evidently he couldn't be bothered to walk the hundred yards from the centre of the camp. Although, to be fair to his majesty, he still wasn't used to riding for this long. We had spent the day traversing the coastline along the packed sand at the edge of the surf, where the sea would wash away the hoof marks. Horses didn't like saltwater either.

'The king would have audience with your grace.'

'Audience? Is that how he's phrasing it now?' I wondered.

'I know not, my lord.'

I approached the king's tent. It was a conical structure. White canvas partially painted in gold, red and blue. It was standing up today, better than it had last night. 

'I had to help put the stakes in.' A high, clear voice. Unmistakably my cousin's. 

I could see his face in the shadows of the the tent entrance. He was crouching barefoot on the rug covering the narrow gap of forest floor between the outer and and inner layers of canvas. 

'The tent collapsed last night.' He informed me, unnecessarily.

'I was there.'

'You certainly were.'

He retreated, catlike, on all fours into the interior of the tent.

I followed him. The late afternoon sunlight diffusing softly through the canvas. It was a space of muted shades and gentle golden light.

He was still wearing the woolen hood he wore under his helmet. 

'Your majesty!' I laughed, reaching under his chin and untying the strings.

He removed the hood, long hair spilling over his shoulders, staticky and tangled, strands of it still clinging to the wool.

'Oh, Richard.' I exclaimed in dismay.

'What?'

'Your hair.'

He looked at me in confusion.

'It's so knotty.'

'I could cut it off-'

'Don't you dare.'

'I've a comb somewhere...' He moved to the side of the tent and began rummaging through his bags.

'I've got a comb. Sit.'

He sat in front of me, cross-legged. I did indeed have a small wooden comb upon my person. I inspected the king's hair. There were many small knots, many of which were tangled into a larger knot at the base of his skull. Basically what you would expect of long curls, uncombed and unwashed for several days crammed into a woolen hood under a helmet for a dozen hours. 

War had never been kind to Richard. He wasn't good at it. He was deeply passionate, occasionally violent, moderately athletic- But strategy? Not so much.

'There are midges in here.' Richard announced.

'There are.' I agreed, 'It's summer in a forest.'

I decided to start at the ends of his hair, where the tangles were smaller, but the moment I began to pull the comb through his hair he yelped in pain.

'Ow. Ow-ow-ow-ow. You're tearing. Ow. Stop-'

'Richard.' I said evenly, 'I know you don't really want to cut your hair.'

'But it hurts.'

I put the comb through his hair again. Instead of shouting, he seemed to be making a quiet whimpering sound.

'This isn't going to work.' I decided. 'I'm just going to use my hands. It's going to take awhile.'

'I don't have anywhere to be,' he pointed out.

I set about untangling each knot individually, pulling individual strands, holding the hair above the knot to avoid tearing it. It was going to take a long time. Hours rather than minutes.

'Is the Lancaster child still trying to run away?' he asked.

'Lancaster?'

'Henry of Monmouth.'

'He wasn't trying to run away.'

Richard tried to turn his head, but couldn't because I was holding onto his hair.

'He wasn't?'

'No.'

'We should give him a knighthood.'

'A knighthood?'

'Mais oui.'

We sat in silence for several moments. The warm air was cooling slowly, as I knew outside the sun was creeping towards the western horizon. I was aware of sweat soaked into the king's shirt where his armour would have wrapped around his back, almost unbearably hot under the summer sun. We smelled of horses and humanity. I worked my way up Richard's hair, pulling apart knots. Someone less patient might consider it beyond redemption. 

'Do you think it's worth it?' I asked, finally.

'What?'

'I don't know.'

He inhaled deeply, and sighed. 

'No one makes mistakes on purpose.'

'No one?'

'Why? What is it?'

I was laughing, 'It's just that there's this knot in your hair.'

'It's not funny.'

I was tired, and Richard's nerves were frayed. I decided against pursuing this course of interrogation.

By the time I had untangled the last knot and run the comb through his hair, which had somehow almost regained its silken lustre, it was nearly dark.

He lay down, burrowing under the blankets that covered the floor of the tent. I lay beside him as the twilight seeping through the canvas gave way to total darkness.


End file.
